


Chicken

by IrisPurpurea



Series: Inktober 2018 [5]
Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Angst, Between Hollow Boy and Creeping Shadow, Changers, Gen, George Is Mad, Lockwood Is Depressed, Lockwood and Co - The Creeping Shadow, Lockwood and Co - The Hollow Boy, There’s A Chicken Involved, chicken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 14:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17003190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisPurpurea/pseuds/IrisPurpurea
Summary: Very odd behavior for a chicken.





	Chicken

“That’s… a chicken.” George takes off his spectacles, rubs them on his jacket, and peers through them again. “Is anyone else seeing this? Am I going crazy, or is that… a chicken?” Holly rips up another floorboard and the atmosphere prickles, the cold air sharpening around them. Lockwood holds up a hand to stop her.

It is indeed a chicken, mere yards away, black legs and beak and pure white feathers. But this chicken is standing stock-still – aren’t chickens usually quite fidgety? – and giving off a strange, pearly, greenish sheen. It’s staring straight at them. Odd behavior for a chicken. They’re standing by the opposite wall, within a large circle of heavy iron chains. Holly’s still holding her crowbar. They stare wordlessly at it for a few moments. It stares wordlessly back.

In a sudden flurry of movement, startling Holly and George, Lockwood flings a handful of iron filings from the pocket of his coat at the spectral chicken. The iron rips through its form and the chicken dissolves as a wave of psychic energy smacks them, sending the three of them staggering backward, clutching their heads. An instant later, the chicken reappears in the same spot by the bed, stock-still, staring straight at them with gleaming eyes. It doesn’t even twitch. Very odd behavior for a chicken.

“Well!” Lockwood claps his hands together, rubbing them in fierce excitement. “This is fascinating! We’ve never fought a chicken before, have we, George?”  
George pinches the bridge of his nose, stamping his foot in frustration. “Lockwood… if you’d just let me do more research –

“But we’d never have been surprised, then, George!” Lockwood exclaims, almost snaps as he spins to face him. “And what’s life without a little adventure?” His eyes are dangerously bright. George can only nod faintly.

“That’s it, George, that’s the spirit!” Lockwood claps him on the shoulder so hard he reverberates like a gong – or perhaps he’s just shaking from the cold, as the temperature has just dropped about ten degrees.

The chicken tips its head at them but otherwise doesn’t move a muscle.

Holly knows by now that George’s face is usually quite expressionless, so she’s startled when he looks over at her with deep concern evident in his eyes. He gestures wordlessly towards Lockwood’s back. Holly can only shake her head back.

“Right!” Lockwood claps his hands together, jolting Holly and George out of their silent communication. The chicken doesn’t flinch, but a blast of cold air slams into them, shifting the chains a few centimeters across the floor. “Sorry.” Lockwood gives a sheepish chuckle, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Got to… got to remain calm, right, forgot about that. Er… so, what does this tell us?”

“Well, she’s not a Lurker, that’s certain,” George says dully. “And I’m willing to bet she didn’t actually die in her sleep. Which, now that I think of it, is definitely a concern I voiced to you as we were leaving the interview…”

Lockwood flaps his hand in George’s face. “Let’s not worry about that now. So, if she’s not a Lurker, then what is she?” He says it with a bite of impatience, as though he’s frustrated at having to ask such an obvious question of them. George wants so desperately to give a nasty retort, but he stops short when he sees a flash of fear and guilt in Lockwood’s eyes. Of course, Lockwood knows what she is, but he doesn’t want to be the one to admit it.

“That’s a Changer,” Holly supplies, looking carefully away from the two of them. “Their grandson reported a faint… faint shadow hovering in this corner.” She gestures to the hole they’d ripped in the floorboards a few minutes previously. “And we assumed it would be a Lurker. But that… is definitely a Changer.” She swallows. “A dangerous, malevolent Type Two, usually born of h-horrifically traumatic deaths… capable of taking on different forms and… and very difficult to subdue for long without sealing its Source,” she finishes quietly, glancing over at George, who’s rubbing his spectacles furiously on his shirt again.

“Okay…” Lockwood considers, brushing his hair back from his face. “But why this particular form, do you think? Any ideas?”

They’re silent, staring at him almost incredulously.

“Maybe she always wanted to be a chicken?” he presses. “Live a simple, carefree life, and now in death, she’s granted herself that desperate wish? Maybe she had a beloved pet chicken, named it Beaky or something –

“All I know is that if you’d given me the time to find out how she died,” George says through clenched teeth, “we wouldn’t have to speculate quite so wildly at such an inopportune moment.”

Lockwood falls silent, looking determinedly away from both of them. George takes a deep breath.

“My guess…” he continues, “… when Auntie Edna discovered her body, it probably wasn’t… completely intact.”

Holly’s eyes widen in horror. “You don’t mean…”

“I do,” George gives her a grim nod. “The Bitters… they seemed shifty to me from the beginning. I suspected from the first that she didn’t just die suddenly out of natural causes… my original thought was that dear old Uncle Daniel poisoned her before he and his wife left for the city. But… I mean the Changer we met at the Bickerstaff house…” He sees Lockhart’s shoulders tense at the memory. “Wilberforce… when he died, his body was…” no one seems to be stopping him, so George plunges on. “… you know… slowly devoured by rats.” Holly claps a hand over her mouth as Lockwood turns to face George, grimacing.

“Well,” Lockwood sighs, sweeping a hand through his hair again. “Chickens are… voracious creatures.”

“What do we do, Lockwood?” Holly’s voice is faint, her eyes flitting rapidly between Lockwood and George.

“We have one set of heavy chains, and only because I insisted we pack them,” George sighs, nudging the chain with his toe. The chicken tilts its head to the other side, making them all jump. “Only Lockwood brought his rapier,” George continues after a moment, eyeing the chicken nervously. “And we have a load of salt and iron bombs and one magnesium flare. Because we thought this would be a Lurker.” He glares at Lockwood, who mumbles something dismissive and turns to contemplate the chicken.

“Okay,” Lockwood says after a minute, still staring at the chicken. “Okay… what if we just… threw the flare and ran for it?”

“We can’t set the shack on fire, Lockwood,” George sighs. “It’s made entirely of old wood, it’d catch far too quickly.”

“And that wouldn’t destroy the Source,” Holly adds. “And probably that would just make it really mad.”

“Right, right,” Lockwood nods, turning back to them. “Then… I suppose the only thing to do is to find and seal the Source. I mean…” Lockwood gestures at the chicken behind him, “she’s barely moved all this time. And I’d say the chains are pretty secure, heavy enough to hold her off. So… just keep prying up the floorboards until we find… whatever it is, I suppose.” He draws his rapier and turns to face the chicken again. Its gaze is fixed on the sword, but still it remains unmoving.

Holly hefts her crowbar and wedges it beneath another floorboard. She pries it up with a resounding crack and in that same instant there’s a horrific SHRIEEEEK and a wall of acid green ectoplasm erupts before them, held at bay by the chains. They reel from the shock of it, Holly and George slamming into the wall of the shack, clutching their heads, and Lockwood losing his balance and falling flat on his back in the middle of their circle, rapier clattering on the floor. Their ears are ringing, the air around them throbbing furiously with psychic energy.

The blast shifted the chains about a foot inward so that their circle is now lopsided. Holly somehow manages to scramble to her feet and hastily begins to fix the chains, then freezes, staring at the bed across the room. “Lockwood…”

The chicken has rematerialized in the same spot by the bed, stock-still, staring at them, eyes gleaming. Odd behavior for a chicken.

“If that chicken intends to run at us every time we try to pull out the Source…” Holly begins.

“… we’re never going to get at it,” George concludes, nudging Lockwood’s shoulder with his foot. Lockwood looks up at him from the floor, and George is startled at the expression on his face. His eyes are gleaming much too brightly, his mouth is thin, he looks all at once fragile and resolute, miserable and frantic. He looks far too much like the fourteen-year-old boy he is.

Lockwood rubs furiously at his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. “Lucy should be here,” he murmurs, so quietly George can barely make it out and Holly can politely pretend not to have heard. Lockwood meets George’s eyes. “She’d know, George… Lucy could tell us how she died. She’d have heard her voice long before any of this happened… she could talk to her… she’d get us out of this mess.” Lockwood trails off, staring beseechingly at George. It’s been two months since Lucy walked out on them. George knows exactly what Lockwood isn’t saying, what he can’t bring himself to say.

There’s silence for a few more moments, Lockwood on the floor, George standing resolutely over him, Holly tactfully keeping a close eye on the unmoving chicken. Then Lockwood springs to his feet, startling George as he whirls to face him. There’s a dangerous gleam in his eye.

“Lockwood…” George begins, his voice dripping with dread. The look on Lockwood’s face warns him against continuing. “Lockwood don’t…” he tries again, but his voice fails. It’s been two months since Lucy walked out on them. George knows exactly what Lockwood isn’t saying. Behind them, Holly wordlessly pulls a silver seal from one of her pockets, giving George a distressed glance over Lockwood’s shoulder. George squares his shoulders.

“When I give the signal,” Lockwood says in a low voice, “start prying up the boards again. I’m confident this is where the Source is, now all we have to do is widen the hole and pull it out, whatever it is.” He turns from George, nods to Holly, and picks up his rapier, walking to the edge of the iron circle. He leans forward on his toes; the chicken takes a single step forward. He looks back at them with a small smile.

“Now!”

George turns to the hole as Lockwood leaps over the chains and an awful SHRIEEEEK rends the air; then Holly is beside him, tossing the seal onto the floor and frantically jamming her crowbar underneath another floorboard and heaving. There’s a CRACK and another SHRIEEEEK and the metallic hum of Lockwood’s blade as he slices through the frigid air gathering around them, and George fights every urge to turn and plunge into the fray alongside him. He hefts his crowbar and wedges it beneath a floorboard and pulls it up, it’s been two months since Lucy left them, CRACK. SCREEEEECH! It’s been two months – CRACK – of Lockwood flinging himself at ghosts with alarming ease, and he’s been reckless – CRACK – and stupid and distressed – CRACK – and George’s heart is pounding in his ears and he can’t be sure whose screams are bouncing off the walls behind him.

“There!” Holly screams, and George sees it as she wrenches away a final floorboard, a glint of gold in the dark hole they’ve ripped in the floor. He drops to his knees to reach for it and a gust of frigid wind smacks into him, but he grips the splintered edges of the rough hole with his other hand and leans in further as the wind whips around him. And then he’s got it, something cold and smooth in his hand and tosses it to the floor and hauls himself up as Holly throws the silver net over it –

Silence. The wind and the howling and the screeching vanish, leaving their ears ringing. They turn to see Lockwood slumped against the bed, but his chest is heaving and he’s tapping his foot against the wall. Holly exhales and runs to him, dropping to her knees beside him. George hesitates for a moment and then follows, hovering uncertainly over her shoulder. None of Lockwood’s limbs look blue or swollen, but he’s clutching his wrist and gritting his teeth and his face is scratched and god George really wants to punch him, no matter how exhausted and defeated he looks.

He walks back to their circle instead, stepping carefully over shattered salt and iron bombs, and gathers up the Source. Under the heap of the silver net, he can see what looks like a golden chicken’s egg, glinting in the moonlight filtering through the slats of the roof. He has no energy to wonder what it might mean. The silver net is far too big for it; he fishes a silver-glass case from his bag and carefully transfers the egg from the net to the case, shutting it quickly and then, after a moment’s thought, wrapping the case in the net, just to be safe.

“George?” Holly’s voice is behind him; he shoves the bundle back into his bag and stands to face her, Lockwood hovering sheepishly behind her. Holly has wrapped his wrist with his scarf, and he clutches it to his chest. George meets his eyes, and Lockwood opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out.

It’s been two months since Lucy left them, and there’s a gaping silence where she should have been and a hole at Lockwood’s side.

“To the furnaces, then?” Holly asks, looking uncertainly between them.

“I’m off to the archives, actually,” George replies, looking at Lockwood. “Look up more information on the girl. Her name, for starters, and maybe there’ll be something about how she died. We may have to call the police on the old couple in the morning.”

Lockwood nods. “Right, then Holly and I’ll make the trip to Clerkenwell. I’ll… see you at home?”

George pulls the bundle back out from his bag and hands it to Holly, who takes it gingerly. “Yeah, see you,” he says and stalks out the door into the cold night.

George doesn’t stop until he reaches the road, where he finds a telephone box and calls a night cab. He leans against the glass, staring into the darkness. She’s probably somewhere out there, facing off against someone else’s vengeful spirit by herself. One of these days, they’re bound to bump into her at the furnace, or maybe at the DEPRAC offices, or even out on a case… and George doesn’t know what he’d do if they did.

He decides against the archives as the night cab pulls up and just tells the driver to take him back to Portland Row. It's only when he slumps in the back seat that his body seems to register what they'd just been through, and a wave of exhaustion swoops over him. George rides back to Portland Row half-asleep with his face pressed against the window, thinking of furious spirits and screams and the dangerous gleam in Lockwood's eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a series of fics inspired by the Inktober 2018 prompts. Day 5: Chicken.


End file.
